


The Sleeper

by PitoyaPTx



Series: Stories From Clan Meso'a [1]
Category: Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Mandalorian, Mandalorian Culture, Meso'a proverbs, Meso'a sayings, Short Stories, don't cross whom you can't kill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 00:30:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PitoyaPTx/pseuds/PitoyaPTx
Summary: The Jiiya who sleeps by his children dies ~Meso'a Proverb





	The Sleeper

“I was born on our homeworld, so was Etima. We grew up hearing the story of a Jiiya with nine children. You’ve seen the Jiiya, right?” Aran paused, noticing Brock’s calculating stare towards the nearest exit, “Right?”  
“Oh uh, yeah! Right right right,” The Rattataki nodded a little too enthusiastically, “I was invited planetside for that warrior festival..thing.”  
Aran shook his head and pulled his hair back into a messy bun.  
“This Jiiya was so tall and intimidating that the mere mention of his name sent fear rippling through his jungle home. No one would cross him, no one came too close to him, and no one ever raised a claw against his children.”  
“Rightly so,” Brock raised his mug of caf. Aran’s eye twitched. Beside him, Etima was happily guzzling down her fourth bowl of stew, only half listening to the conversation.  
The human fixed Brock with his steel grey eyes, unnerving him. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table and whispered, “Do you know how Jiiya earned his peace?”  
Brock shifted uncomfortably, fingers itching to grasp the blaster on his hip. He gently set the mug down on the table and did his best to feign indifference, “No, no I do not know. He was a big’un so he probably had to just exist.”  
To his relief, Aran nodded and sat back in the booth, “You’re correct. He hadn’t done anything, not even a show of strength. He simply,” Aran walked two fingers across the table, “strolled about menacingly for almost one hundred years.”  
Etima setting her bowl atop her pile of dishes momentarily startled that Rattataki. He jumped slightly, but caught himself, clearing his throat and keeping his eye contact with Aran.  
“Continue,” he croaked.  
Aran looked him up and down before he went on:  
“Jiiya might have been a magnificent specimen, but all nine of his children grew up scrawny and weak. See,” Aran leaned forward again, “He never taught them how to hunt, how to fight, how to inspire the same fear he inspired in all the other creatures of the jungle. He was so reliant on his own prowess that he figured his kits would learn from his example, mimic his moves, his actions and they too would be as fearsome as he.”  
“Let me guess,” Brock crossed his arms, his calculations coming back in his favor, “The little ones got eaten?”  
Etima snorted, “Thahhhtssss noht thee Jhiiiyahhh wayeee.”  
Brock tried to keep the unease off of his face, re-checking his math now that the Trandoshan was paying attention.  
“So what,” he gestured towards Aran, “They piss off and leave him or something?”  
“They ate him,” Aran explained as if commenting on the weather, “The Jiiya way is to kill or be killed. He was a poor father, so they ate him in his sleep and grew strong. His body was so large, they feasted on him for months. Picked him clean.”  
Aran waved down a waitress and handed her his empty mug, “The Jiiya who sleeps by his children dies. It’s our people’s way of saying: don’t be lazy lest you lose what you have, even your life.”  
“That’s kinda harsh,” remarked the Rattataki hastily finishing his own mug and handing it off to the waitress, “Don’t your people know how to, I don’t know, relax?”  
Etima swirled her soup with a lazy flick of her spoon. “Thhheresss a rhheassson for iihht,” she hissed, bringing up a spoonful of meat and vegetable chunks, “HHwouldnt want to thhhhssss lheave yoursssself ohpen ffffhor atthack.”  
Brock’s lip twitched. He had a hard time understanding Etima most of the time, so he turned back to Aran, “Care to translate?”  
Etima barked out a guttural hiss, drained her soup in one big gulp, and slammed the bowl back down on the table as she stalked off towards the refresher.  
Both men watched her leave, the warrior chuckling into the back of his hand, “You know you’re on thin ice with her as it is.”  
Brock laughed awkwardly, “Listen you two hired me, alright? Besides them overgrown lizards talk too slowly, but no offence!” he added hastily as his tablemate unsheathed a short blade under the table, “What she lacks in linguistic clarity she makes up for in beauty!”  
The blade remained were it was; Brock gulped and adjusted his collar, “Listen, Aran, you need me for this job. So what if your wife’s a-”  
“Overgrown lizard,” Aran ran his fingers long the edge of the knife, “with poor linguistic clarity.”  
“I didn’t mean it like that!”  
Aran cocked his head to the side, eyes narrowed as he studied Brock’s sweat covered face. He shook his head, but sheathed the blade, “You’re pathetic, Brock, but I’ll humor you. Etima should be a moment. Those stalls are far too small for her. No doubt I’ll be buying them a new one.”  
Brock laughed nervously but instantly grew quiet when Aran’s steely gaze fell back on him. Before he could stammer out more nonsense, Aran pulled out the blade and slammed it down into the table. A few patrons in nearby booths ceased their conversation to watch the Mandalorian, now leaning forward in his chair and resting his arms on the table.  
“Being a warrior,” Aran explained in a low, commanding tone, “means that your strength relies on you continuing to use and train it or else it will be take from you. Whether by sickness, death, or your own stupidity you will lose it should your forget to always be on the lookout.”  
Brock shifted back in his seat as if to melt into the plastic padding, “Y-yeah, that makes sense. Keep your nose to the grindstone, an idle hand is a-”  
“A missing hand, a hand that gets chewed off by a creature in the night,” Aran slammed his fist down on the table, startling yet another group of patrons, “You see, Brock, laziness isn’t just about what you’re doing or not doing, but what you’re saying,” he eyed the blade jammed an inch deep into the table, “How careless you are with your actions,” his eyes flicked back to the perspetrating Rattataki, “how careless you are with your words.”  
Brock’s eyes darted from one exit to the next, lingering on some of the patrons now engrossed in his plight with the hunter.  
“Don’t look at them,” Aran rested his chin on his hands, “They don’t know what you did.”  
“I...I don’t-”  
Brock became even paler, spying Etima marching out of the refresher with the door’s sign stuck to her left pauldron spikes. The barman looked on with helpless resignation as the Trandoshan threw a few credits at him.  
“Rrhhidur,” she growled, prying the sign from her shoulder, “Whheee shouhhld llheaave soohn.”  
“One moment, beloved,” he held up a hand, eyes still fixed on Brock.  
Etima looked from one to the other, her toothy countenance curling into a cross between a snarl and a smile. Brock couldn’t quite tell, but he didn’t like either.  
“I was just about to finish your explanation,” Aran continued, “He deserves to know why we have to kill him.”  
A Devaronian nearby snickered and nudged his friend, pointing at the trio across the bar from them. Brock, who’d been carefully crafting his escape plan all dinner, faltered now that Etima was alert and on her feet. He didn’t want to look up at her, didn’t want to take his eyes off of Aran and his six-inch blade. If he could worm his way out of this one, well, he might as well quit while he was ahead. Normally he’d brag about something like this, but then again, he’d never crossed a Meso’a before. His fingers closed around the hilt of his blaster, ready for a quick getaway.  
“Listen, Aran you know I..” he trailed off, the waitress had returned with their caf but startled the moment she saw the blade. The Rodian hugged the tray against her chest and rushed back to the bar, quickly pulling the barman aside and pointing back at the table.  
“Etima dear?” Aran waved lazily without breaking eye contact with Brock.  
His wife growled affirmatively, stalking back over to the bar. Out of the corner of his eye, Brock could see Etima putting her hand on the Rodian's shoulder but couldn’t tell what was being said. At this point, his insides were cold and his arms felt like jelly as he tried to bring the mug to his lips.  
“Nexu got your tongue, Brock?” Aran teased, a smile carving its way across his stoney features, “Interesting. Normally you can’t keep your trap shut. Especially,” Aran sat forward, fingers sliding towards the knife, “when credits are involved.”  
“Wait!” Brock screamed but Aran ignored him. Before he could even blink, Aran had jammed the knife into his hand, effectively pinning him to the table.  
Several patrons began to laugh as Brock cried out in pain, desperately trying to pry the blade up from his hand. Aran sat back and sipped his caf; Etima was walking back over from the bar, both the waitress and the barman watching the ordeal with grim resignation. Aran took a deep breath:  
“Listen Brock I’m going to level with you. We all gotta make a living, gotta feed the kids, or keep the ship going,” he laced his fingers in front of him, “But you see what you’ve done, selling our wares under the table, selling our wares to clients not affiliated with the clan, well,” he accepted Etima’s hand on his shoulder, “You just about put millions of lives at risk. You were careless with your words, too lazy to make sure we didn’t find out about your little meet-ups on every planet we’ve stopped on so far.”  
“No...no no, Aran, Etima I-I’d never,” he stammered through the tears, through the growing dread forming a lump in his throat. His own saliva felt dry and sticky, gluing his tongue to the roof of his mouth, “Please, don’t do this!”  
Aran shook his head, “Sorry Brock, but we can’t have careless crewmates.”  
Crack! Etima slammed her fist into Brock’s face, cracking his nose and instantly bruising his forehead. He sputtered, ditching his blaster, and raising his free hand in front of his face in a feeble attempt at protection. It didn’t matter. Etima’s next three blows dispatched him in an instant. His body slumped low in the booth, kept from falling to the floor by his hand still pinned to the table. Aran, unmoved, finished his caf and retrieved his knife.  
“Sleep well,” Aran patted Brock’s limp shoulder before pulling out the knife and watching his lifeless body slide under the table.  
Etima chuckled and put her arm around her husband; he kissed her cheek and stowed his knife.  
“One down, two gangs to go,” he yawned.  
“Sssleephee, cccyareh?” she asked, poking his stomach gently with her knuckle.  
He looked up at her and frowned. She laughed and shook her head, giving him an affectionate-but-almost-rib-cracking squeeze.


End file.
